Moving Forward
by JackOwens1860
Summary: This is a series of one-shots concerning pivotal points in various characters relationships. Will be told from multiple speakers and POV. First one is Bruce trying to reconcile with Dick after firing the seventeen-year-old as Robin following turmoil. Chapter 2 complete, Jason and Dick. NEW CHAPTER - Bruce and Dick talk after Jason's death.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This will be a series of one-shots charting the various relationships between characters at key moments throughout their history. Although some may not be exact canon, I would like to think there is a degree of it in every chapter that gifts it both credibility and realism. At present, I have only prepared two stories for publication, this one and another between Jason and Dick at the beginning of Jason's tenure as Robin. Ideas welcome.**

**This one-shot features Bruce and Dick a year after the man fired his ward as Robin. They have not spoken since his departure and Bruce finds himself struggling to concentrate on matters in the cave. Alfred suggests a solution that Bruce is unconvinced of. Then Alfred makes Bruce carry it out.**

**Either convince me you like it or convince yourselves I like it. Whatever that means.**

**Enjoy.**

**Moving Forward**

**Bruce**

Tonight has proved to be…atypical. Routine patrols seem unusually difficult to complete without marked errors in technique or execution when I am engaged in combat. I am frequently mistiming steps and not striking through blows sufficiently. This means it takes two hits instead of one in order to incapacitate an opponent and I suffer greater damage than would be warranted to accomplish such goals. I am aware my lack of REM sleep and punishing schedule is not helping matters, but neither is it to blame either: I can function efficiently even after three days of non-stop combat and operations. There is an underlying cause for this amateur behaviour but I am loathe to admit it. It is the boy. He has been gone from this house and all that includes for nearly fourteen months.

At first I did not notice his absence. I would suppose my anger negated his lack of presence. I yelled at him before he left. I yelled loudly and I did not omit anything. I made it clear I did not want him anywhere near me or Gotham's streets. I fired him in the worst circumstances. Since that night when I watched him ascend the cave steps for the last time, he has not been in contact with me at all. I know he has called Alfred. The old man receives at least one phone call a week from him. Alfred then passes on regards I know Dick has not given in some effort to soothe broken bonds. It is ineffective but I do not tell him so. I also know the boy has taken on a new moniker and costume in his role with the Teen Titans. He is apparently calling himself Nightwing and dressing in clothes far more appropriate for his age. From what I can gather, he is performing admirably in a leadership role. I am indifferent.

The problems began two or three months ago. The holiday season had passed with relative obscurity in the house as they always had before the boy's arrival. Outside in the city, I maintained my public image as a philanthropist by donating gifts to Gotham's Children's Hospital and assisting the mayor in lighting the tree outside City Hall. It was during this ceremony that I saw him for the first time since his departure. Despite the vastness of the crowds and the innumerable sea of generic faces regarding me, I saw him immediately. He was near the front staring at me with an expression that was unreadable. I have never been unable to read him before. The boy was wearing a heavy coat against the winter weather and appeared to have grown a ponytail during the intervening months. I did not like it. He stood watching me all the way through the mayor's speech and the ensuing chaos of joy amongst the masses when the tree was lit. I am unsure if he expected me to say something or give some kind of gesture, but when I did neither and the ceremony was officially concluded, he simply walked away. Since that day, I have had my concentration difficulties. A fortnight later, I began to suffer from bouts of insomnia and poor sleep. The quality of my investigations has dropped.

Of the twenty-two active cases I had prior to that encounter, only fourteen of them have been formally concluded. Of the eight remaining, I am only confident of three. The remaining five cases are not of sufficient quantity or weight to allow me to formulate workable theories. This is down to my errors in gathering basic information and intelligence for the investigations. I am growing unbearably obtuse in my methods and deductive reasoning. I am not thinking clearly anymore and can barely secure enough evidence for convictions to be upheld in court. It is highly distressing to find myself at such a juncture. It is because of the boy. It is because…

I miss him.

I arrive back at the cave before two A.M. Alfred is constantly on standby presently due to my newfound abilities to sustain disabling injuries from even the simplest of situations. The old man is not pleased with my aggravating already sore ribs with further punishment nor is he thrilled by my purchase of a sprained wrist courtesy of improper arm bar technique. He regards me after bandaging my wrist with a great degree of sadness present in his eyes. He emits a long sigh before placing a hand on my shoulder.

"Just talk to him, Sir. You can't continue this way for much longer."

"I'm quite certain I can continue this indefinitely, Alfred."

"Not unless you mean as some twisted interpretation of an afterlife. You need to clear the air with him."

"You know he won't speak with me Alfred."

"So go and speak with him directly at his apartment, Sir."

"He will not see me."

"Did you know he thinks you don't love him anymore?"

I stare at the old man in silence for several minutes. He is serious in what he has just said. The boy honestly believes I do not love him anymore. It is as absurd a notion as I have ever heard uttered. I shake my head.

"That is impossible." I say. Alfred sighs again.

"No, Master Bruce, that is the logic of an eighteen-year-old boy who has been all but thrown out of his home and now rents an apartment in a city even more dilapidated than ours so that he will not 'sponge' off your wealth. The only man he loved more than his own parents has effectively disowned him and has not even attempted contact of any sort since that abandonment. How would you suppose the young man would interpret it if not that you no longer wish anything to do with him?"

I was aware of the boy's living arrangements and his part-time jobs to pay the rent. I am aware Bludhaven is not a pleasant place to reside and that its crime rate rivals Gotham's without much effort. Alfred has told me everything Dick has told him. I have listened and stored the information. But I have not analysed any of it. I have not interpreted any of the data available to me. I would consider it unnecessary prying into affairs that do not concern me. Dick is grown now and his privacy must be respected. His wishes must be respected. I must not encroach on his liberties or choices. I must not break under the pressures.

"That's not true. I am merely respecting his wishes that I do not interfere in or try to control any aspect of his life." Alfred stares at me in what can only be described as astonishment.

"My God…sometimes you really are not quite human, are you Sir?" I frown.

"I do not understand your meaning, Alfred."

"How would talking to him interfere in his life?" He asks despite my understanding the answer to be obvious.

"It would waste his time." There is a lasting silence again, but Alfred is able to break it with some force.

"Do you miss him, Sir?"

"It could be inferred that my lack of focus is attributable to…"

"That is a yes. Now ask me the question you have wanted an answer to." I know what question he is referring to, but I am already confident of the answer. It is a flat 'no'. I shrug.

"Alfred, I really think this exercise is…"

"Ask the bloody question, Sir."

"Does he…miss…me?" I say, quite surprised by my difficulties in articulating the four words required. I am hesitant despite knowing the answer. Alfred's nod indicates that I have misjudged the situation by some way.

"Terribly. He has never openly admitted as such but it is obvious when he mentions your name. There is a strain to his words whenever you become a topic of conversation. It is that of a boy still hopeful for reconciliation. Unfortunately that hope is fading with every passing week that you do nothing to justify your label as his father."

"I am not his father, Alfred. I never…" I stop when the old man slaps me across the face with an open palm. It stings enough to inform me of how angry he is with my approach to the situation. He glares at me.

"You are going to see him right now."

"Alfred it's two-twenty in the morning."

"Get some clothes on and we'll go."

"Alfred…"

"Clothes. Now."

We arrive at the apartment building shortly before three-forty-five A.M. It is a decaying ruin of an establishment, replete with crumbling plaster, boarded windows and unchartered scores of graffiti. I would imagine it to be a crack house or squatter's haven, but not accommodation. Alfred waits in the car as I open the main door and find the lock broken off. I enter the lobby and regard the mail boxes. Many flaps have been prised off but I am able to identify the boy's apartment as being number thirty on the third floor. When I arrive outside the door, I am quick to notice access to the roof is only yards away and would be very convenient for nocturnal activities. I knock twice and wait. Oddly, the door opens immediately. Dick is clearly awake and has been for several hours judging by his lucidity. He is also dressed in nothing but a dressing gown and has wet hair, indicating that he has just taken a shower. The likelihood is he has just returned from conducting his own patrol duties in the city.

"Unless you've got some of my mail to give me, get lost." He tells me sharply. He has sustained an injury to his right arm if the way he is cradling it is any indication. I would imagine it to be a deep laceration of some kind, perhaps even a dog bite.

"You're injured." I say. He narrows his eyes.

"So?"

"I could fetch Alfred up to treat it for you."

"I don't need help."

"It's on your right arm."

"So?"

"You're right-handed. If it requires suturing, you'll struggle to stitch it effectively."

"I can manage fine, thanks. It's late so if you don't mind…" He says preparing to close the door.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry about everything that happened that night and the weeks preceding it. You deserved better." I tell him without any sort of uncertainty. He pauses halfway through the action of closing the door.

"Has Alfie been coaching you to say that?" He says with more than a hint of doubt at my sincerity. I shake my head.

"No. I mean it." I gesture at his arm, "Was it a Rottweiler?" Dick shakes his head.

"Alsatian. It didn't get down to the nerves."

"It wasn't just one, was it?" I say having observed a slight imbalance in his posture: his left leg is bearing the majority of his weight. The boy shakes his head.

"There were two. The other one chomped down on my thigh. It wasn't as bad."

"Do you feel nauseous?"

"They didn't have rabies."

"You have vomited recently though." Dick instinctively wipes his mouth to clear any evidence he assumes I have picked up on. The truth is I merely guessed based on his pallid complexion.

"I haven't been eating well recently."

"Since that is the case, perhaps you would prefer to sit down and talk rather than stand." I say. The boy averts his gaze. He's embarrassed, probably from either the state of the apartment or the lack of possessions it most likely contains.

"I'd rather you didn't come in if it's all the same. The place is…not for guys like you." He is alluding to my wealth and the luxury it affords me. He forgets I have sometimes been undercover in the field for several weeks in locations even worse than this. I do not mind grime or garbage of any sort if it is a necessity to achieve my goals.

"Dick, I have been an appalling guardian for you in the past eighteen months. I have known that since you left but chose not to act out of some misplaced sense of righteousness, one of my many faults. I know I am too late to apologize for the last year, but as you know I am late to react to most things concerning human contact. If you wish me to leave I will return to…" I am halted by his hand gripping the shoulder of my coat with an incredibly tight hold: he is literally making a fist through the fabric.

"Don't leave. Just, just don't leave please." He says in a strained voice while looking me directly in the eyes. I am rendered speechless by the pain and desperation in his eyes. Everything Alfred said is true: Dick believes with the utmost sincerity that I do not love him. He believes it. I incline my head.

"Okay. I won't." He slowly releases my coat and takes a few deep breaths to steady himself. I can see he is close to breaking down. I let him gather his thoughts before suggesting anything else. "Perhaps I could come in?" He nods at me before turning in the doorway and limping into what appears to be the living room. It is Spartan in this apartment. There is no discernible furniture beyond a battered sofa and wooden coffee table. The space is not as unkempt as I had envisioned whilst the general condition of the walls, floor and windows are of acceptable quality given the area. When I sit down beside him, I notice the television set perched on a book shelf on the opposite side of the room. It is a small portable variant with a scratched silver finish.

"I know it's crappy, but I'm trying to keep expenses to a minimum so I can spend the cash on my utilities for crime-fighting."

"I see. Where are your medical supplies?"

"In the kitchen, bottom drawer of the cabinet."

I find the medical kit easily enough and return to the living room. "It's not too late to have Alfred treat you instead of me." I remind him whilst setting the kit down on the coffee table. The boy shakes his head.

"I'm fine with you doing it this once. You know you don't look so hot yourself." He informs me having obviously taken note of my bandaged wrist and general body stiffness as I sit back down. I unfasten the kit.

"Recent patrols have been less than desirable in their content." I reply taking out the suture thread and disinfectant swabs. "May I see your thigh?"

"Only if you're a gentleman about it." Dick says with half-a-smile. I cannot help but smile back. I should not have let him go like that. It is easy to say such things now, but hindsight is a terrible thing especially when it proves your course of action was incorrect.

"Keep yourself well covered." I say before lifting his gown to uncover an uncomfortable-looking series of holes that form a perfect half-circle on the thickest part of his leg. It is still weeping blood as I tend to it. As I work we talk about his relationship with the Titans. He tells me everything is fine and they are doing well with their missions. I am glad he is not completely isolated here. The wound is surprisingly simple to treat and I conclude matters with it in less than ten minutes. Then I turn to his arm. His forearm is badly lacerated and bleeding profusely. It will require suturing. He registers no real reaction as I suture the wound shut which surprises me somewhat: there is normally a yelp of some kind when faced with this kind of treatment. Perhaps he is tougher. Perhaps my opinion of him is too condescending. Either way, I am pleased.

"I'd be willing to give you one more chance, Bruce." Dick tells me when I have packed away the kit. I wait intently for his conditions. "As long as you're really sorry about the way things ended between us, we can work something out." I nod my head.

"I was angry with you for all the wrong reasons. I had no right to say the things I did. I regret all of them. I never wish to distance myself from you again." The boy smiles at me in something approaching satisfaction.

"I'm sorry too. I kind of said some things I wish I could take back. I think you understood the 'not-a-little-kid-anymore' part of my rant a little too well." I would agree with that observation. I will not make a similar error. He shrugs. "But I'm not coming back to the house and I'm not sponging off your money. I just want to feel like I can drop by if I get the time or if I call you that you'll actually pick up the phone. That's all." His conditions could have been easily met a thousand times over by this stage. If I had listened, they could have been occurring right now. I nod in understanding but must add a little caveat of my own.

"I will contribute a little financial aid to supplement your income and also provide you with the equipment you need for your duties with the Titans and on the streets here." The boy is instantly wary of my proposal.

"How much aid?"

"Would two hundred dollars be sufficient?"

"That's like half my monthly income."

"I trust it might help you obtain a better standard of food?" I say referencing the empty Chinese take-away cartons and pizza boxes I found on the kitchen countertop. Dick still looks unsure of my offer.

"Am I sponging off you?"

"Hardly. I would merely sleep better knowing you are able to look after yourself effectively." The boy nods.

"I missed you too." He says. Regardless of Alfred's keen observational skills, Dick is still the only person who can see right through me in such matters. He considers the offer again. "If it helps you concentrate better at work or sleep better at night or whatever, I'll take your offer."

"I am glad. I shall call you tomorrow if you like." I say getting to my feet in preparation to leave. Dick nods.

"Yeah that would be cool."

"I trust you can manage your own way to your bed?" He smirks at me and nods.

"I'll be okay. I'll speak to you tomorrow."

"Good night Dick."

"No, big guy, Good morning." He corrects me with a good-natured smile. It is enough to give me pause and reconsider what words I really wish to exit on the strength of. Alfred's assertions that Dick should understand I still love him seem the best way to part terms on. I begin.

"Dick, you know that I have always…"

"Yeah me too. I think I'm getting how you feel about me now is the same as usual. I don't want you to embarrass yourself by saying it out loud. We're both terrible at holding those kinds of conversations." He says cutting me off without sounding too sharp. "Call me tomorrow afternoon please." I incline my head in gratitude.

"Until tomorrow." I say before closing the door behind me. As I descend the stairwell on route back to the car, I understand that Alfred was unmistakably right in his analysis of the situation. I have not completely mended burnt bridges but I have made a start. I would do anything to continue talking with that boy, to have him be a part of my life. I realise that now. I am thankful I was not too late.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Jason encounters Dick for the first time in his tenure as Robin. Dick has some advice. Jason is not entirely receptive.**

**Enjoy.**

**Moving Forward 2**

**Jason**

It's not hard, this vigilante gig of mine. The rules are simple enough: do the right thing, don't jump to conclusions and of course don't kill anyone. I can follow them but I'm definitely already guilty of flunking the first two like every French exam I ever took. I've never been close to breaking the last one. I think about Two-Face and almost persuade myself I might be capable of it, but I'm not. I'm just mad. But that's as far as it goes to now. I got a handle on my temper. I got a handle on myself. That's why he's letting me fly solo tonight. He trusts me to do the right thing, not jump to conclusions and not snuff out anybody's candle. It's been a long time since somebody believed in me and it means a lot that Batman's the guy backing me. I feel wanted. I feel good about myself. I feel like Robin.

Tonight's pretty quiet. I get in a few rounds of batting practice in the Narrows courtesy of two groups of would-be rapists and one gang of muggers to get my range and then move on to the Bowery for the big game. The big game is a guy running an illegal gambling operation in a condemned building and turning a tidy profit. The problem is that this guy isn't just a solo act: he's part of the Umberto crime syndicate, once run by a couple of brothers who both got their comeuppance a little too late for a lot of people. Despite them both pushing up daisies, their crime syndicate is still in control of nearly half the city's illegal gambling profits and bookmaking joints. Anyone doesn't pay up or anybody stands against them always ends with a shallow grave either in the ground or under the harbour waters. So I'm going to end this shit with some finality by taking down the main players and burning the building down.

Just so you know, this was not my plan: it was Bruce's. He said I could do the rest of the patrol my way so long as I took down this rat-hole his way. A deal's a deal right? There's little need for subtlety in a scenario like this. Since that's the case, I smash a couple of window panes and lob some CS gas grenades into the room to funnel the scum out of the building's limited protection. Once there's a sizeable crowd of thirty or forty people gathered in front of me, I formally announce my intentions.

"Good evening retarded monkeys of Gotham. I'm Robin and my boss has decided that you all need to stop what you're doing tonight. That being said, those of you who are purely gambling addicts and pathetic junkies can scurry back to your shit-hole tenements and apartment buildings to either shoot up or let your better halves shoot off about your problems. The remainder of you I assume work for the Umberto crime syndicate. If you do, you're unlucky as there's a shortage of your kind in GCPD's cells and I need to fill a quota. Make it easy on yourselves and just lie on your faces now." My little speech separates the scum into the relevant piles of human garbage until I'm left staring down fifteen heavy-set guys in designer suits who are also all clearly well-armed.

This is still the big guy's plan. He provided the speech and I provided the insult and the quip. It's called teamwork. He said fifteen guys who were armed would be left after the smoke cleared and there are. He said I had all of six seconds to close the gap before one of them would be in a position to fire. So I charge in. Once I snap the quickest one's arm clean out its joint, I know I'm safe. After I go on to cut down another seven of them, mostly with sickening head kicks and some crushed kneecaps, I get unceremoniously kicked in the chest hard enough to fly back against the nearest dumpster.

Before I've even made contact with the dumpster, I know it wasn't one of the Umberto crew: I had them under control from the start. When I do hit the metal hard enough to leave a dent, I know the guy is playing rough. Even though my back hurts like hell, I'm on my feet in less than four seconds. Suddenly there are no more goons to fight. They're all down and the guy in the middle of them, dressed in what looks like a bad disco outfit, is glaring at me like I paid a house call to his mom. I'm not afraid of this loser. The guy's got a fucking ponytail for Christ's sake, hardly a smart move.

"Halloween's still a few months away, asshole. I suggest you take your crappy costume back to the shop and get your deposit back." I tell him. He narrows his eyes.

"Listen kid, playing dress-up is fine in your own home but not out here. You could've got yourself killed." He responds like_ I'm_ the lunatic out for a jolly. I smirk at him.

"I'm not playing and you got damn lucky blindsiding me just now. Why don't you try that again, Ponytail?" I don't give him the option of retreat: I go for him. He tries to move out of the way but I hit too quick, catching him neatly on the chin with a straight right hand. He counters of course, but it doesn't do him any good: I'm not built like other fourteen-year-olds. Instead of crumpling from the weight and speed of his right hook, I bear the brunt and hammer an uppercut straight into his balls. There's a long pause in the aftermath as I stand up and back away a few steps while he remains fixed in his half-crouched position. I wait for him to topple but somehow twenty seconds turns into two minutes. Eventually, Ponytail stands up straight and regards me in awe.

"You know my suit's got a Kevlar reinforced crotch panel, right?" He says. I shrug.

"I guessed as much when you didn't fall on your ass within five seconds. I definitely caught you full-on though."

"I was trying not to black out. Is there Kevlar in your gloves?"

"There's enough to finish most of Gotham's bottom-feeders. Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm Nightwing. He actually did it, didn't he? He trained another one. You're my replacement?" He says in what can only be disbelief. I'll take that as an insult. I clock him again: the guy's about five-eleven, one seventy-five and maybe as young as nineteen or twenty. The spandex suit he's wearing shows he's in possession of a gymnast's physique but with more heft. That he could take down those seven guys without trouble and then recover from a groin shot means he's more than well-trained. It all fits. This guy is my predecessor. This guy is Richard Grayson, the first Robin and Bruce's golden boy. I smirk.

"So you're the big guy's gold standard for partners, are you? You know you hit like a bitch?" He smiles thinly at me.

"And you talk like a punk. Does he recruit gangbangers now?" Wow, this guy's got balls to talk to me like I'm still a piece of gutter trash. Maybe I should tag him a few more times to prove him wrong about the label, mess up that pretty face of his. I'm not a gangbanger…I'm an animal.

"I passed all the same tests you did, Ponytail, only I did them better."

"How long was he training you for?"

"Over a year." I suddenly understand where the disbelief is coming from. I can't help but widen my eyes as revelation dawns on me. "He never told you, did he? Did he at least tell you he'd taken me in?" Golden Boy's eyes say 'no'. That has got to sting. He makes it look like it does more than that: it looks like his heart's been ripped in two. I shrug. "He probably had his reasons. How do I measure up?" He frowns at me.

"What do you mean?"

"Come on: you must have been watching me for a while before wading in. How am I as Robin?"

"Honestly? I thought you were some kind of thug in a costume. The way you took those eight guys down, I thought you were going to kill one of them. That's why I intervened. How old are you anyway? You look about thirteen."

"I'm nearly fifteen actually, pretty boy. And I'm not a thug either: I just fight like one. It suits me." I can tell the guy's more preoccupied with Bruce not telling him jack-shit about me prior to this impromptu meeting of the minds. He feels betrayed and I know that doesn't feel great. Motel rooms and subway bathrooms are where I was betrayed. Betrayals always hurt, but I can imagine if they're by someone you know and trust, it smarts a whole lot more. "Look, he probably had his reasons. You know he's all about the plans and stuff." I reiterate before kicking one of the scum at my feet back into unconsciousness. He shrugs haphazardly.

"He's an asshole sometimes, little bird. Promise me you'll be careful around him." He sounds genuine enough, but I can't help shooting my mouth off.

"What, did he rape you or something?" Ponytail stares at me in deathly quiet for almost a minute. I can see I've shocked him but not touched a nerve. The big guy didn't do that sort of thing to him.

"Where did he get you from? Please tell me your parents weren't murdered by criminals too."

"Just one of them. The other one died of cancer." He doesn't look like he wants to hear anymore right now. I guess it's enough to go off for now. I consider.

"How about we ditch these guys with Gotham's finest and then find a rooftop to talk on? Street-level conversation is probably not a safe bet."

Ponytail agrees with my suggestion. Ten minutes later, we're on top of Gotham Cathedral overlooking Park Row. It looks like a beautiful illuminated ruin from up here. It all looks that, the decay and corruption hiding behind a thin veneer of lights as the night reaches its peak. We sit on the edge of a four hundred foot drop to the streets below, he starts with the basics.

"So you got a name?"

"Jason."

"And you know my name?"

"Dick Grayson, right?"

"Yeah. So you know my story?"

"Yeah, I've heard it from Al a few times."

"So tell me yours." I only say anything because it seems fair we should even the playing field a little. I blow out my cheeks and shrug, staring down at the world far below my feet.

"Not much to tell. My mom died of cancer when I was ten or eleven, my old man got iced by Two-Face when I was twelve. I ran from foster care and lived rough on the streets for a little over a year. Then I met Bruce and…"

"You didn't just 'meet' him, did you?" I guess it's not plausible for people like us to just meet the 'real' Bruce Wayne. I consider a lie before settling on the truth. It's not embarrassing enough to lie about.

"I hocked the wheels off his car when he was patrolling. He tracked me down, guess he felt sorry for me and…" I shrug, "Then I became the second version of you." When I look up Ponytail smiles at me.

"You stole his wheels? That's awesome." Praise is good. I smile back.

"I figured I could sell them."

"You're a smart guy, Jay, honestly. Whatever he saw in you, I think I see it too."

"Still I don't think you'll be impressed with my next move." I say producing a crushed pack of smokes from the inside of my tunic liner. Golden Boy got a direct hit on them when he hit me in the chest. When I stick one in my mouth and then light it with a match from a capsule on my utility belt, Dick isn't as shocked as I thought he would be. He regards my vice as if he can almost make sense of its existence. It's rare. I don't think Bruce would feel the same way if he found out.

"How long have you been smoking?" He asks as I take a long drag. I exhale slowly.

"Started when I was eleven. My old man smoked so I did too. I'm down to one a day now though. Better than ten right?" Dick shrugs his shoulders.

"It's not my place to judge. How are you finding living with him and Alfie in the house?" I take another drag before nodding. When I breathe out this time, I am totally calm and relaxed.

"It's okay. Al home-schools me because of my problem with authority figures, but I don't miss the pecking order of the school food chain. Bruce is…well, the guy is just himself. You know what I mean, it's hard to describe him as anything but Bruce. It's a sweet enough deal but I think this stuff out here just makes it perfect." I'm not a psychopath or anything, not by a long way, but I enjoy hurting people. Being physically capable enough to manhandle almost anybody you lay eyes on is unreal. Turning the violence onto the scumbags that deserve the beatings and the broken bones makes you feel invincible. Dick nods in understanding.

"I know what you mean. It's freedom out here, right? That's the same thing that suckered me in too." He says with a large undercurrent of contempt in his voice. I take another drag and decide I've had enough for one night.

"Well, you don't sound bitter about it at all." I offer sarcastically whilst stubbing out my smoke on the roof slates.

"Can I give you some friendly advice from one Robin to another?" Please God no, not a lecture from this guy. Al's table manners

"I can't guarantee I'll take it on board, but go ahead."

"Bruce expects the world of you every time you step out on patrol. If you are any less than perfect, he will come down on you really hard. All I'm saying is don't be surprised if he fires you more than once during your time as Robin and try your hardest NOT to take personally. If you do, things disintegrate faster than you can imagine. Bruce doesn't understand relationships and bonds like ordinary people do: he sees no need to take back hurtful things once he's spoken them and never has a limit on how far away he can distance himself from you. If you feel him pulling away, don't stand by and do nothing: reel him in early and it'll offset the damage before it gets serious." Jesus. It's actually like I'm pet-sitting for one of those lunatic cat owners who treats the stupid thing like a person and leaves a laundry list to sift through. So he hurt you, Ponytail: maybe you shouldn't have made him your daddy. If your parents are dead, they're dead and you accept it: you don't make someone else your replacement…wait a minute. Am I a rebound for Dick? Nah, that's bullshit: I'm nothing like this pansy. I roll my eyes.

"Do you just want your job back or something? You make it sound like an impossible task when it's nowhere near. You just do as you're told and everything is totally fine with him." Golden Boy smirks at me.

"You really think it's that simple with him?"

"You don't scare me, Ponytail." I say, barely resisting the urge to bare my teeth. I don't like smug, especially on this ponytailed circus reject. He nods in agreement.

"I noticed that. I just hope you're all thick skin instead just some. Bruce's criticisms cut deep." I can't help getting to my feet, despite the lack of floor space available. I set him straight on the issue whilst trying to level the bass in my voice.

"I can handle him chewing me over. Thanks for your advice all the same though. But if you make a scene at the house about all this I'll break your fucking legs." Golden Boy looks surprised by my threat, but not in any way intimidated.

"That's it? I levy a couple of complaints about the guy's character and you're ready to fight to the death to defend his honour?"

"I hate whiny bitches who complain about their lot in life. My life was shit but I don't complain about it or the people involved. It solves nothing to complain about things you can't change."

"I'm not complaining about my lot in life, little bird. I'm just letting you know what you can expect. I wouldn't want you going into this thing with your eyes shut. That's all. Don't bite my head off." Okay, I snapped a little too easily there. Back-up plan, Jay-Jay…insults.

"Then stop calling me little bird."

"Are you going to quit calling me Ponytail or Golden Boy?"

"Have you got a ponytail?"

"Yes."

"Well, that one's staying. And I'm keeping Golden Boy, too."

"Why?"

"Because it suits you. Pretty boy is just an ironic title."

"Alright fine. You win the war of words, little bird."

"I told you not to…"

"Okay, you're fourteen and that's a perfect age to be an obnoxious little brat, but don't dish out banter if you can't take it back. You make fun of my ponytail, my looks and my talents so I take a swipe at your short stature, bird-like physique and total lack of polish. It's a game remember?"

Okay, Golden Boy's got some serious verbal skills here. I underestimated him. Maybe he's right about the friendly advice. If he can rattle me that easily, Bruce could probably do a lot more damage. I should thank him for the heads up but I won't. I'll compromise by apologising.

"Look I suck at introductions so I'm sorry I gave you the wrong impression of me. You seem like a nice guy. I'm just used to being on my toes and Bruce is the first person in a long time who actually likes me. I didn't mean to snap at you. Honest." Dick smiles whilst rising to his feet.

"It's okay. I like you. You're good. Just try not to get too wound up and we'll get on famously." He says extending his hand. I accept it and we shake to seal a weird kind of friendship. Brothers under the mask might be a good title for it. We stare at each other.

"You're going to make a scene anyway aren't you?"

"I'm going to at least shout at him."

"Fair enough. I think Al will leap to your defence."

"God, I hope so. That would be perfect."

"You know it's funny?"

"What is?"

"I think I like you too…Dick."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Alfred's POV. The butler shares his first real intimate talk with his master's replacement for Dick Grayson. Alfred is attempting to treat Jason after a recent solo patrol turns ugly.**

**Moving Forward 3**

I have seen violence before. Many times. Too many times. Master Dick's beating at the hands of Harvey Dent and his injuries still haunt my dreams and some waking instances. So I was understandably reluctant at sending an unstable and angry homeless orphan from the underbelly of this city into the fray. Even after his extensive training and 'housebreaking' by Master Bruce, I was not in favour of his participation in the ungodly 'crusade'. I thought he would take it too far. I feared he would kill someone rather than incapacitate them, such was his strength and feral nature. I voiced such concerns last night, when the Master allowed his latest protégé to conduct solo patrols while he was indisposed with business matters. I was assured my concerns were unfounded. I was invited to see for myself how controlled and mature Jason Todd actually was under the Robin mantle. So I sat in the command centre and watched the live visual feed of his patrol for the evening.

It began inauspiciously enough. The boy capably stopped two robberies and one attempted rape within the first two hours. There were no incidents or concerns. He followed procedure to the letter. His vital signs pointed to calmness in the face of adversity. I admit at that juncture I was sated and, somewhat embarrassed by my slights against Jason's character. As the patrol progressed and the boy foiled more criminal activities with a controlled and methodical approach to his adversaries and situations, I felt like a fool for believing him to be more animal than child. I resolved to tell him upon his return how wrong I was about him and how stupid I felt. Everything changed shortly before midnight.

The boy was chasing a fleeing suspect, dealing heroin to school age youths in the Narrows, and found himself in a large courtyard. He was beginning to sweep the area for the suspect when a crowd of between thirty and forty members of the infamous Gotham Kings gang barred all exits and closed in on him. Master Bruce had only trained him to negotiate a maximum of fifteen combatants in a single combat scenario when alone. He had been otherwise instructed to withdraw from the battlefield to fight another day. The boy immediately reached for his grapnel only to be hit from behind. I picked up the phone and began to dial the GCPD to assist him. The operator was just asking the nature of my emergency when I caught sight of the monitor. I put the phone down. Jason had somehow already taken down four of them in fifteen seconds. His heartrate was somewhere at the upper limit of his body's capacity whilst sensors in his tunic alluded to him having sustained several hard shots. Regardless of such strain, I watched the boy press on.

He kept getting hit in the face, but did not go down or cease his attacks. I watched as his heartrate climbed past his known limits of endurance when a pipe wrench barely missed his head. Still the boy kept going forward. He disarmed the assailant with the wrench before using it to knock down a further eight combatants in less than three minutes. When the boy was jerked into a chokehold from behind, I again picked up the phone, putting it down as he visibly tore flesh from his attacker's arm…with his teeth.

Kicks to the face, elbows to the collarbone, low blows to the groin and knees kept the boy pushing forward through the seemingly never-ending sea of bodies. After five minutes of frenzied close-quarter fighting with melee weapons, Jason had managed to overcome almost half of their number, some twenty or twenty-five bodies. A moment later, he was finally brought to one knee by a tremendous blow to the temple. My fingers had the phone and number ready. The boy threw a smoke pellet, donned his respirator, and then went to town on his foes yet again. As blinded men swung aimlessly in the fog, the boy showed no mercy, snapping arms and breaking ribs with wanton abandon and a shocking amount of raw power for a fourteen-year-old. By the time the smoke dissipates, Jason only has eleven men left between him and his suspect who is amazingly still in the vicinity. As remarkable as his current tally is, how he manhandles the remaining obstacles is nothing short of astounding.

When one produces a knife, the boy responds by slipping inside an attempt to punch through his abdomen, snaps his wrist and hurls the knife into the next man's shoulder, sending him into shock. The other nine close ranks, forming a tight circle around him. They are armed with knuckle dusters and bicycle chains as their primary weapons. I hear the boy smirk and then speak.

"Come and get me bitches."

The assembled party do not need a second invitation and lunge in to destroy him. I count three rapid-fire head-butts before a deft sleight of hand manoeuvre relieves one man of his knuckle dusters. With iron to bolster his teenaged fists, Jason shows little trouble in smacking the other men around whilst occasionally throwing in a gut-wrenching kick for good measure until all of them lie listlessly at his feet. The boy then spits a hefty glob of blood on the floor, wipes his mouth and proceeds to interrogate his original suspect amid the carnage. I am stunned for several minutes. The lad from the Narrows and a life of horrific abuse just incapacitated, by my count, almost forty-seven assailants single-handedly. I cannot believe a fourteen-year-old is capable of such a display. Any ordinary boy, including Master Dick at the same age, would not be able to sustain such a prolonged assault on so many combatants without faltering. They would also most likely be in a critical condition by this stage if they had absorbed the kind of punishment that Jason just did. They would certainly not be interrogating a dealer for information on their suppliers. But the boy is.

He calls the GCPD and, after securing the suspect he initially wanted, manages the journey back to the cave. He weaved considerably on the roads from Gotham, nearly ending up with his bike in a ditch no less than four times. When he arrives in the vehicle park and staggers up to the command centre, I try to treat his injuries. He shoves me away, despite blood trickling from both ears, his forehead, his nose and his mouth indicating a multitude of possible ailments from a cut to a brain haemorrhage. His body is already breaking out in fresh and ugly-looking contusions as he sheds his tunic and tries to light a cigarette. He is having significant trouble coordinating his hands. I take control.

I forcibly seat him in the chair and proceed to examine his pupils for signs of a haemorrhage. His eyes are normal and nothing appears blown or foreboding. He follows my finger and repeats some simple phrases when asked to memorise them in turn. I conclude he has a concussion, but not internal bleeding. My offers to help him to bed are ignored. Jason begins the ascent to the library on his hands and knees, crawling painstakingly up the stone steps in little more than his underwear. I shadow him carefully, looking for signs of fatigue that might mean a nasty fall to earth. But he makes it all the way up and then all the way upstairs to his room. When I try to offer my assistance in putting him to bed, Jason slams the door in my face. I hear the shower come into life and decide against my better judgement to leave him until morning. He is currently not open for sensible dialogue.

I enter his room barely after six in the morning. I slept terribly. I find him lying on his side and his pillow slip covered in dried blood. He is still breathing as I draw close with a supply of medicine to counteract his concussion and general pain. When I touch his shoulder from behind, he flails wildly and then tries to sink his teeth into my forearm. I move it away just in time to avoid such a painful incident. His agitation is so great, I can only think of one thing to soothe him. I move onto the bed, slide one arm over his chest and bring my other up to his head to hold both his body and head still. I bring my lips close to his ear and shush him.

"Shhh, Jason. Everything is fine. Everything is safe. Shhh. You're safe in bed. You're safe here." I say softly, repeating the same words over and over again like a mantra until his tense muscles and shallow breathing relax and return to normality. Eventually, the boy calms.

"Sorry, Al. I…got a little confused." He tells me with notable embarrassment. I comb through his hair, finding the motion first causes him to flinch with every stroke across his scalp. After a minute, he stops flinching and softens in my embrace. "Did I hurt you?" He asks.

"No, Sir. Everything's fine, just as I said. Can I let you go now?"

"Yeah, sure. I'm good, Al, I'm good." I slowly release my grip on him and ease off the bed. The boy turns over to face me before propping himself up on one elbow. His skin is now littered with half-formed scabs, bluish bruises that are slowly turning brown and evidence of a life beyond my understanding in the form of cigarette burns and oddly shaped scars. His eyes regard me with trepidation. "Can I have a smoke please?"

"Master Jason, you should not be smoking in your condition." I caution him.

"Please, Al?" Jason pleads, his voice and eyes demonstrating the weight of the stress and trauma currently crushing him flat. I relent and light one of his cigarettes before passing it to him. The boy sits up, almost snatches the cancer stick from my hand and proceeds to take a long drag on it with his eyes closed. I perch myself on the edge of the bed, the pill collection I wish him to take still in my pocket. He exhales slowly and breathes deeply twice before venturing to open his eyes. The burden on them seems less obvious now. I reach over and put my hand on top of his.

"Are you alright, young man?" I ask, squeezing his hand supportively. The poor lad is clearly frazzled by his exertions, but offers me a half-smile.

"I'm just tired, Al. I'm not used to…whatever this is we're doing."

"You mean talking, Sir?" I suggest with a sympathetic smile I hope tells him I am not mocking him in any way. His reply of a slightly wider smile assures me I am understood. He takes another drag, shorter this time and less desperate.

"I guess I mean I'm just used to waking up alone with my problems. I don't expect people to care all that much." He answers after exhaling. I squeeze his hand again.

"I hope to change that mind-set. Now, let me treat your injuries before they get any worse."

I begin to stitch the wound on his forehead, expecting some degree of discomfort to show on the boy's face. None does. I bandage his ribs expecting a sharp intake of breath from his bruises. His breathing is steady. None of my treatments provoke any kind of physical reaction in him. Jason is rock-solid despite his age and nature of his injuries. Because of the silence, I make conversation.

"For someone who has taken down almost fifty grown-men single-handedly, you seem rather unscathed. How do you feel?" I inquire cutting the suture off upon completion of his stitches. Jason shrugs.

"Just tired I guess. Maybe a little sore. Otherwise I'm fine."

"Were you having nightmares when I awoke you?"

"For me, dreams and nightmares tend to be the same thing. But they were no worse than usual. You just surprised me is all. I don't expect room service in this place. It's not a hotel." The boy says with a lop-sided grin I find awfully endearing. He is a nice boy, despite his rough edges. I see that now.

"This is not a service, Master Jason. It is my interpretation of what a family does for each other when it is needed."

"Well you and my old man have radically different interpretations of what a family is." The boy says smirking before taking another drag. It hints at deeper issues I do not wish to broach without his cooperation. "Some of these cigarette burns are his handiwork you know. The others are 'gifts' from…other well-wishers." Jason adds choosing his words carefully before flicking the length of ash into an empty glass on the nightstand. I am assuming his 'well-wishers' are his abusers from time spent on the streets. Instead of pushing further, I simply incline my head.

"In that case, I hope you prefer my interpretation to his."

"Oh, hell yeah, Al. So much." He says with a smile before stubbing out his cigarette in the glass. I restrain my horror at such blatant misuse of the good glassware. I pat him gently on the back.

"I'm glad. Now please take your medication and rest."

"Sure thing, Al. Thanks for treating me like a human being and not a slum rat, even though maybe you wanted to." The boy says swallowing all the pills given to him in one gulp. "It means a lot." I am speechless. His perceptiveness shames me and my biased attitudes towards him. I can do nothing but nod in humble gratitude of his lack of spite for my narrow views. I get off the bed and straighten my jacket.

"Breakfast will be ready shortly. Would you like me to serve you it in bed?"

"I said no room service, Al. I'll come downstairs."

"Very good, Sir. I will see you shortly."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: A one-shot from Dick's POV as Nightwing. This is set a few months after Jason's death at the hands of the Joker. Dick is investigating gunrunners in Bludhaven and receives an unexpected visitor. Some measure of bonding ensues, but old wounds never heal. Enjoy.**

**Grief**

The path of true love never runs smoothly they say. I can relate to that. I've dated quite a few women in my time, but none of them were my true love, not even close. It's not to sell them short, but they just could never tame my heart. My heart will always belong to my one true love. No, it's not the big guy. God no. Just…so much no. My true love isn't a person at all. Why should it be? No, my true love is performing. Even though I'm not in the circus anymore, I can still rock a singlet like nobody else. And nobody kicks the asses of criminal scum with as much flair and imagination as I do either. Bruce calls it being a crime fighter or a defender or a crusader, or sometimes even admits to being a vigilante. I used to think it was those things too, but it's not really. It's being a performer. Here, in Bludhaven, Nightwing is a performer. And that's all I ever wanted to be. Sometimes true love is a smooth ride, like when I easily round up a new crowd of degenerates for the cells in one night and even get a round of applause from the boys in blue for my efforts. Sometimes it's like trying to sail a rubber dinghy over a sea of jagged rocks and praying not to get a puncture. Tonight, as I'm strapped to a chair getting worked over by some pissed-off gunrunners, I can feel the rocks threatening to burst the boat. True love right, what can I say? Sometimes it sucks.

It's taken the best part of twenty or twenty-five good shots to the face and body for me to work my way through the ropes on my wrists, roughly fifteen minutes of work altogether. They jeer and taunt, threaten to maim and murder, but I keep the mood light with my usual ill-advised round of jokes and taunts of my own. I'll admit, my now swollen jaw is making the more complex quips harder to articulate to the crowd, but it shouldn't be more than another minute before I get to make my move and end this sweetly. Then they break out the baseball bat. After one closer of a swing smashes into my skull like a runaway freight train, I realise I need another five minutes. I may not have that long before a concussion or a haemorrhage ends my night early, maybe even my life. Since one death in the family is about as much as the big guy can take without snapping completely, I really have to avoid that scenario. So I switch tact.

"You guys know Batman's getting ready to kick you all to the curb, right?" I say, turning my head to one side to spit blood on the floor. They stop jeering. The semi-pro with the bat stops mid-swing too. The Bludhaven crowd are tough, but one mention of the big man is enough to render them mute. It's a phenomenal reputation and one that might just save my life if I play the room correctly. I grin and nod. "Yep, he's skulking somewhere in the rafters. Can't you guys hear him yet?" I add pricking up my ears and glancing at the ceiling. They all follow my lead and look up. The air is still as they listen for an invisible predator. I carry on working through the ropes. A bird makes them all jump in fright. I pray I can hold their focus for just a little longer. I just need another thirty seconds…

They turn back towards me less than ten seconds later, angrier than before. The ruse has failed and I am about to get a rerun of Harvey Dent's batting session without a reprieve. They close in. I muster a sheepish smile and shrug.

"I guess I'm hearing things. Sorry about that." I say as blood trickles from the cut on my scalp down past my cheekbone. I am in serious trouble now. "I honestly thought I heard him up there…"

"You did." An ominous voice replies from behind the crowd. Before they can turn, five of their number are unconscious on the concrete. Bruce stands in the middle of the limp bodies, grim-faced and staring around at the remaining twenty guys in silence. He looks at them like I used to look at insects when I was a kid. Nobody wants the first hit, but they know they have to. One throws a haymaker like a punch-drunk prize fighter and is immediately sent to the ground from one perfect elbow to the back of his head. The others pile in to try and overpower him like they did me. It's a mistake. Bruce parries four hits by simultaneously ducking, weaving to his left, blocking with his right forearm and bearing the brunt of a guy's best body shot with his thigh. All four hitters are knocked down in sequence, courtesy of a straight left that flows into right cross that meets a right elbow to the throat and ends with an insanely cool backwards guillotine choke over his knee. Since four was a bust, the remaining lot try their luck with six. Although the test is stiffer, after fifteen seconds of blocking overheads and slipping out of the reach of their flick-knives, the big man employs a couple of batarangs at close-quarters to eliminate the additional manpower and then easily surmounts the remaining four, breaking one arm and fracturing a knee along the way. Now all ten survivors of his initial attacks close ranks and try to bully him.

Bruce makes an opening in the circle by delivering a side-kick to a charging thug with so much force that the poor chump flies three feet back and breaks the ring of steel. The big man then commando rolls out of oncoming danger to deliver the finishing blow to his latest fallen opponent before jerking his head back to avoid a baseball bat kissing the base of his skull. Have I just been sitting on my ass the whole time he's been doing this? Technically yes, but now I'm free of the restraints and throwing myself into the mix. I take two from behind by utilising the old meeting-of-the-minds head smash before bouncing off one of their rapidly falling bodies to launch myself into another three, pinging off them like some kind of human pinball. I knock one out with a pretty artsy spinning heel kick but then mess up my timing and get clotheslined by the biggest of them. Fortunately, Bruce has already finished everyone else off with practiced ease and completes the shut-out by taking away the guy's legs and then ramming an uppercut into his jaw with so much force I hear it snap. I applaud sarcastically from the floor.

"My hero."

"Are you alright?" He asks without offering me a helping hand. I turn my head and spit more blood before nodding.

"Yeah, just peachy."

"I hope you'll forgive the intrusion. I was not here to investigate the gunrunning ring. I merely had intelligence that suggested Gotham's heroin was being trafficked from Europe through Bludhaven's docks before arriving in the city for distribution." Bruce explains when we're back at my apartment twenty minutes after handing the warehouse and all its scum over to the police. I'm currently holed up in the bathroom, trying to save my face from disappearing amongst the lumps and swellings I've picked up tonight. The big man waits outside the closed door. I bear the sting as rubbing alcohol meets my open cuts. The one on my scalp is especially painful.

"And was your intel correct?"

"Partially. However, I could not find any other large mass of heat signatures apart from those in your warehouse. It seems tonight is not the shipment delivery." He states. I roll my eyes.

"I take it you'll be staying in the city for the next few days to catch them in the act?" I say whilst beginning to bandage my aching ribs.

"No. I have other leads to follow that may prove more…fruitful."

"Well, thanks for stopping by." I tell him exiting the bathroom and expecting to find him gone. But he's not gone. He's still here and looking out the window. The only light in the apartment is coming from the moon that hangs bloated in the sky. He doesn't say anything for the longest time. He just stares at the skyline in silence, like he's pondering something important. I lean back against the wall and watch him. It's been nearly eleven years since we first met. I've gone from a kid into a teenager into a man. He hasn't changed at all. I'm starting to wonder whether it ever will.

"You were unlucky to be detained." He says without turning from the window. "Judging from the needle mark in your neck, they needed a sedative just to even the odds. It would appear they are afraid of Nightwing here in the same way they are of Batman in Gotham." He adds. He means it as a very high compliment. I still have to scoff.

"I don't think so. If they were, they would've killed me when they had the chance."

"Reputations take time to build upon. In another year, perhaps they will feel that way." He says, still looking out the window. I sigh.

"Will you just say what you want to say? Small talk is really not your forte."

"Very well." He says finally turning from the window to look me in the eye. His cowl is still up and his expression is still unreadable. I wait. "I came to apologise. You were right about Jason. I should not have struck you. I should have handled the situation differently." Jason's death was not something he planned for, that any of us planned for. When I confronted him about it, he was not in control of himself. When he struck me in anger, it was for the first time in our history. It didn't just hurt like hell: I felt his pain too. It was the tensest moment of my entire life. I was freaking terrified of him lashing out again. I still am. I shrug.

"Maybe, but grief isn't something that can be handled like everything else. I'm not mad at you. In truth, I'm just kind of glad to see you're still alive. It's been months." I tell him truthfully. He bows his head.

"I'm sorry, Dick. Things have been…dark recently."

"You just need time. We all do."

"Yes, of course. I hope you will visit soon." The big man says moving to open the window and leave. It doesn't show, but he really wants to stay and talk. I know besides Alfie, I'm just about the only person he can talk to about this messed-up situation, about what he really feels inside. There's always Jim or Barb, but he doesn't think he has the same connection with them. It's not true: they're both as important to him as I am, but he likes to think we're closer. Maybe we are. Maybe that's why I can read him and nobody else can. If I let him leave now, all he'll do is sit in the cave and brood. Maybe all night. Or all year.

"Bruce?"

"Yes, Dick?"

"You can stay, you know. You don't have to leave like this." I say pushing myself off the wall and wandering close to him. He remains one step from flight by the window.

"Like I said, I do not wish to intrude. Besides which, it is late. I should leave you to rest."

"Bruce, I still love you. What happened the last time between us didn't change anything." I say trying to get through to him. I see him tense when I mention our last conversation. He's ashamed and rightly so. He sighs.

"Perhaps not for you. I cannot say the same. Goodnight Dick." I grab his arm before he can fire his grapnel.

"Shut the window. Now."

Bruce turns to look at me. His face is like stone. For a brief moment, I actually think he's going to shrug me off and just leave anyway. Then he closes the window and draws the curtains. I turn the lights on. I nod in satisfaction before releasing my grip on his stupidly-sized bicep. "You got clothes to wear?"

"In the car."

"Go grab them."

Half-an-hour later, I'm in my pyjamas on the sofa. Bruce is sat next to me, sporting a turtleneck sweater and dark pair of slacks. We both have strong coffees on the table. We've established that Barbara got him out of the cave for the first time in an age and that Jim Gordon set him straight on how things work in the real world. They both told him not to give up on a life outside of his bubble, not yet. It's a good jump-off point for us. He talks about Jason a lot. But he focuses on the last moments of their partnership rather than their first. He talks about the discovery of his body, the solemn nature of his funeral, the way it felt to hold his lifeless body for the last time…I steer him the opposite way. I get him to talk about the kid's raw potential, his hard man work ethic and the way he smiled at him. It makes the whole conversation a little less dour. Bruce obviously isn't smiling about the good times between them just yet, but at least it offers a more positive outlook on the tragedy. He seems less at sea now, more rooted on dry land again.

After an hour-and-a-half of solid discussion, there's a natural lull in proceedings. We both need a few minutes before another marathon. I drain my coffee, what little is left of it, and reach for the pot only to find it's also completely empty. Bruce watches me do this with the slightest hint of a smile on his face. He knows I hate coffee. I always have. The only hot drinks I like involve chocolate powder and milk. Even now, that's what I prefer to drink. He knows that too. I'm setting the cup down when I see his hand out of the corner of my eye. It reaches over and gently settles on my far shoulder. I look at him. His eyes ask permission to perform a gesture I have not experienced off him in almost six years. Normally I'd tell him no, but since he clearly needs my support at the moment, I nod my head. He proceeds to ease me towards him until my head is resting against his chest. I can hear his heartbeat. It's as slow and monotonous as ever. He squeezes my shoulder in silent gratitude. I hear him sigh longingly.

"I should've protected him, Dick. I shouldn't have left him alone there."

"Please don't torture yourself, big guy. You can't save everybody." I say only for him to smirk. His hand graduates from my shoulder to the side of my neck. It rubs it softly.

"I didn't want to save everybody. Just him."

"Well, not everybody's luck is as good as mine when it comes to that department."

"I don't know why I didn't realise that earlier in his tenure as Robin."

"Probably because he survived just as many death-traps and lose-lose scenarios as I did. You know how to pick 'em."

"I don't think I could pick another one. Not now." The big guy offers grimly. I look up at him only to find him unwilling to meet my gaze. He just wants to stare off into space. I try to ease him a little.

"Give it time, Bruce. Fathers aren't supposed to bury their sons."

"I wasn't a father to him, not how I should've been."

"You did the best you could. Same with me, you did the best you could. Nobody's perfect, especially not us." I say only for him to hit me with another lethargic sigh.

"I shouldn't have tried to replace you. Perhaps then…"

"Please stop beating yourself up over things you can't change. It scares me when you crucify yourself like this. Makes me think you'll do something…drastic about it all." His hand moves in reply to this, ruffling my hair in assurance he will not kill himself. He doesn't speak again for a while. When he does, it's because I've asked a serious question about this evening.

"There is no lead for you to follow here, is there?" I say. Bruce combs through my hair like he did when I was younger whilst shaking his head.

"No."

"Did Alfie suggest you come see me?"

"No. Barbara told me I should do this."

"And finding me at the docks?"

"Alfred has kept me informed of your investigations. I in turn have compiled intelligence that might assist you in your endeavours. It told me of likely arms storage at the docks. I located a sample of your blood some thirty metres from the warehouse you were being held in. Judging from the spatter pattern, it suggested a clumsily administered hypodermic needle." He says as I feel his hand move back down to the side of my neck before taking hold of something. I wince as something long and uncomfortable is pulled from deep in the flesh. He shows it to me. It's the end of the needle they used to inject me with sedative. "You missed this during your medical treatment it would seem." I follow his hand as he leans forward and deposits it on the coffee table.

"Were you scared when you found my blood?"

"I will admit since the last time we spoke, I have been monitoring you closely. I do not wish for more blood to stain my hands."

"It wasn't your fault. You can keep saying it was, but I know the truth. It was not your fault. And I'm here for you. We're all here for you, Bruce, whether you want to admit it or not. You're not alone in this. We all lost him. All of us lost him." I tell him. He squeezes me and nods in a mixture of agreement and understanding.

"Sometimes I forget."

"Well, try not to forget that we all love you too. None of us think you're a monster for what happened. None of us blame you for it. We blame Joker. You should too." I say, well-aware of what's coming next. He pushes me away whilst patting my back. He finally turns his gaze away from space to level his eyes on mine.

"That's too easy an excuse, Dick. Thank you for indulging me this evening. It means…a great deal to me. I really must go now. There is a board meeting I am obligated to attend in less than five hours." He says rising to his feet. I incline my head and he walks to the front door. I get to my feet just before he can begin to close the door.

"Bruce?"

He turns towards me and waits expectantly. I shoot him smile.

"Remember: love you, Boss-man. Always will." The big man manages a smile back, the first I have seen from him in years. He inclines his head in appreciation but does not speak. He closes the door behind him and I listen as his footsteps echo down the corridor and into the abyss.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Tim training for the right to be Robin. Bruce making life near impossible to order to get him to fail. Tim calling him on his fears. An unexpected resolution reached. Enjoy.**

**Hell**

I can't feel my arms anymore. Hands so blistered that they bleed barely keep hold of the chin-up bar. The fifty-pound weight wrapped around my ankles threatens to pop both my shoulders. I am exhausted and I am in tears. None of this is enough for him to yell stop. It never is. I see him glaring at me from a few feet away, angry and disappointed at the same time with my performance. My whole body convulses violently from the effort to keep hold of the bar. Fresh blood drops from above and splashes my shoulders. His eyes tell me I am not finished with the exercise. I try to hoist myself up one more time. I manage two inches before my hands give up. I hit the ground with a thud that echoes around the recesses of the cave. I grit my teeth as more tears follow more pain. I look at my shaking, ripped palms in disbelief of their weak nature. Bruce advances closer. I crane my head for his final verdict.

"Fail. Pass tomorrow or you no longer have a place here." He says bluntly before walking away. I don't watch him leave. It doesn't help me. I wipe the tears away with my forearm and nod to myself in affirmation.

"Okay then." I say aloud before venturing to gaze back up at the chin-up bar. It's still dripping with my blood. I look at my shredded hands and nod again. "Okay."

I drop from the bar again. I hit the ground with a thud again. My hands are caked in blood today. Tears sting my face. I crane my head for his final verdict. His expression is unreadable as he speaks.

"Pass. If you do not improve, you will fail again and again. Understand?" He inquires. I wipe away the tears with my forearm and nod.

"Yes, Bruce."

I'm upside down. I don't know what time it is, what day of the week it is anymore. All I know is that I must hold this handstand for another minute or I fail again. Bruce is unmoved by my efforts. He calls time without even looking at his stopwatch. When I fall off the platform and hit the floor, I lose control of my bowels and wet myself right there in front of him. My face burns with shame and I can't hold his gaze as he prepares to pass sentence.

"Do not look away." He tells him with an indication of sharpness in his voice. I reluctantly return his gaze. "Pass. There is no time for embarrassment. Clean up and prepare for the criminology exam. It begins in twenty-five minutes. If you are late, you will automatically be given a fail and not continue in your training." He walks away without saying another word. I sit in my own urine and screw my eyes shut to fight back more raw emotion from spilling out. I clench my fist, bang it against the ground and nod my head.

"Okay. Okay."

I have no idea if I nailed the exam or destroyed it beyond recognition. I'm almost too tired to care. I need to score a minimum of ninety-eight percent to even get the pass mark. Bruce grades my paper immediately before handing it back face-down and leaving the room. I barely have the energy to turn it, but manage to see my final score. One-hundred percent. Perfect score. I close my eyes and nod. "Good score." I mutter before resting my head on the desk and rapping it with my knuckles. "Good score."

I'm deep in the eleventh week of Hell itself. Bruce is trying to break me in every way humanly possible. If he's not engaging me in some physical form of torture disguised under the exercise banner, he's speaking to me like I'm a four-year-old who doesn't understand words past two syllables. I cry constantly as his training tries to drag me into the abyss with every session, but I do not stop coming forward. I've already grasped that it doesn't matter if I cry, bawl or even wet myself in front of him so long as I keep passing the assessments in front of me. He doesn't care about my worst moments, so long as I continue to achieve the standards set. And it's supposed to hurt like this. This is not the same training he gave Dick or even Jason Todd. This is what happens when you want a job that cost the last guy his life: you must be above their standard to survive. It doesn't matter that Jason's standard was as close to perfection as is humanly possible: I have to be beyond that.

All the same tests are being applied, but not accounting for my lack of strength or conditioning. If Jason could chin with fifty pounds strapped to his legs for fifteen reps, I have to as well. It doesn't matter to Bruce that, even at a year younger than me, Jason was close to twenty pounds heavier and naturally strong, I still have to go through the motions. The worst thing is that throughout all of this, I am alone. Bruce is not a mentor to me, just the examiner. He only speaks to explain the test and whether or not I have passed the exam. There's no encouragement, no motivation to be found. There is not even the vocalisation of anger when he is present, just the hint of it behind his eyes. Every time he speaks, it sounds like he's delivering my eulogy, but not mourning my loss. He watches every failure impassively. Every personal triumph is also met with indifference. But I'm still not dead inside and neither is my ambition. I know when all this is over, I will be his new Robin. Deep down, I think he knows it too.

I haul myself from the pool and roll limply onto my back whilst trying to slow my heart down. I've just rescued a two-hundred-and-twenty pound simulated casualty from the bottom of the pool in less than a minute. Prior to saving the casualty, I had to free myself from the lead weight attached to my wrists using a single piece of wire whilst also on the bottom of the pool. I nearly drowned, but not before nearly blacking out from oxygen deprivation. Bruce stands over me expectantly. I don't understand, but when he kicks my casualty, it suddenly all falls into place. I need to perform resuscitation drills. I drunkenly roll onto my stomach and begin CPR on the dummy. After fifteen minutes, I am still performing CPR. Bruce has yet to tell me to stop.

"The casualty is dead." He says coldly. I stop the drill and almost collapse from the sustained effort. I look over my shoulder and up at him. "You have failed the test. You have one more attempt tomorrow or else you will not continue in this process. Understand?" I unsteadily rise to my feet and shrug.

"Why wait?"

Bruce furrows his brow. "Excuse me?"

"Reset the test. I'll go again right now."

"If you fail again, you will not proceed in your training. Are you sure you do not wish for a twenty-four hour recovery period?"

"Is that what you gave Jason?"

"Your predecessor did not fail this test." He informs me. I brush limp hair out of my eyes and muster a smile I hope is defiant.

"Then I've got no excuse. Reset the test."

This time, I'm faster. This time, I surface quicker. This time, it takes three minutes for him to say what I need to hear.

"The casualty is breathing normally. Help has arrived." This time I do collapse, flat on my face and taste linoleum. I feel light-headed and giddy from it all. I start laughing and almost can't stop. "You have passed the test. Your forensic science and chemistry exams will begin in…they will begin tomorrow morning." Suddenly I'm floating above the ground. Literally floating above the ground. Someone's just lifted me by the collar of my coveralls above the ground and is effortlessly walking away from poolside. I laugh again before sticking my arms out to pretend I'm a plane.

Then I get grounded on the bench near the entrance to the pool. I flip onto my back and stretch out to try and ease the burning sensation raging across my entire body. My head gets moved up and onto something softer. It takes me a moment to realise its Bruce's lap. Then I laugh all over again.

"This is totally insane." I tell him through giggling fits. "This whole thing is completely nuts. But I'm not finished yet." I add before gingerly reaching behind me and patting his thigh, "I'll save you, Bruce. Don't worry about that. Just give me time and you'll see it for yourself. I promise."

"You need rest, Tim."

"And you need a Robin. I'll rest when it's over. Don't stop being inhumane on my account. I can take it." I say knocking on the bench with my knuckles, "Touch wood."

"You have passed the test." Bruce tells me after I finish the chemistry exam which immediately followed the forensic science exam. I incline my head.

"So it's officially the weekend?"

"It's Thursday morning, Tim. You have two days off beginning tomorrow. Sunday afternoon is your unarmed combat exam. Should you fail that…" Bruce trails off, almost like he expects me to interrupt him with the obvious answer. I smile at him.

"Yes Bruce?"

"Should you fail that, you will not continue in your training as Robin." He finishes with a frown. I nod in understanding. Bruce stares at me with genuine interest for the first time since agreeing to train me for the mantle…twelve weeks ago. I can tell he sees me as a person at the moment, not another body for the grinder to churn out. That interests me.

"Is something wrong, Bruce?" I ask without getting up from the desk. His interest is barely perceptible, but I see lurking beneath the stone. He places my papers on the desktop.

"No, Tim. I merely expected a less…affirmative response to my conditions. If you pass unarmed combat, you will progress to proper training for the mantle of Robin. It will begin two weeks after the exam concludes to allow adequate rest. Were you to pass the ensuing eighteen weeks of training, you would officially become my partner." He informs me. The voice is empty but the frown and interest is still there. I nod in understanding.

"That scares you, doesn't it?" I say, already knowing the answer without actually realising it until now. Bruce looks me dead in the eye.

"Yes." He tells me without a hint of hesitation in his voice. I'm amazed he told me the truth. I know he doesn't admit any feelings without a hell of a fight. Dick keeps saying as much. I tell him some truth back.

"Well it shouldn't."

"We shall see on Sunday." He replies before turning and leaving the room without another word. I smile and nod.

"Okay then. We shall see."

I am on the brink of failing this combat exam. Bruce has scored two hits on me, both to my body. If I fail to hit him three more times within the next two minutes, or if he hits me one more time, I will walk away from this process immediately after my shower. The two days off did nothing for me. If anything, I'm twice as sore as on Thursday and every attempt to land a strike feels like my insides are going to rupture. But he doesn't care. If I fail, he won't grant me a second chance. Even if I'm a second for winning or a fraction of an inch from landing, I won't be coming back. I slip inside his kick and land an elbow to his abdomen. He almost knocks me on my ass with an elbow of his own. I duck and move out of range before realising I need to be close to stand a chance. I dodge five or six strikes by millimetres before slipping through his legs after a failed body shot. I score a hit with a knee to the small of his back before ducking another killer kick literally by the skin of my teeth. Thirty seconds are left on the clock.

Suddenly there are only twelve. I'm fighting for my life now after he backs me against the wall and I'm forced to block and slip blow after blow in a never-ending wave. It's like he just doesn't get tired. Then he hits me square in the face, drawing blood from my bottom lip and nose. I collapse to the floor in exhaustion as time runs out. One short of a pass. There's a long silence before he speaks.

"You have-"

"Passed." I say to cut him off mid-eulogy. I watch his jaw tighten in the aftermath. "Excuse me?"

"You were about to say I'd passed the exam and could continue on to my formal training as Robin." I say wiping away the blood from my nose. Enough playing the good student. Enough with the constant pitfalls. This is getting old. He frowns at me.

"No I was not."

"Yes, you were. Tell me you want me to go away. Tell me, who's waiting in the wings to take my place?" I say now wiping the blood from my mouth. He wears a mask I can no longer read as he considers a response to my question. A long minute passes by.

"That is irrelevant. You have-"

"Passed." I say again getting to my feet. My voice "I have put up with your bullshit for twelve weeks. I've done every crazy thing you've asked of me. I've done it all for you. Some of this is for me, but mostly I've put myself through the ringer for your benefit. You think this is hell? You think this whole process is hell for me? This isn't my hell, Bruce. This is your hell. You want an indestructible partner and you think destroying me is going to prove no-one is good enough to be by your side. But you need me. You need Robin. And I'm all you've got. There is no-one else. That's why you're scared. If I fail, you fall into the dark and this time there isn't going to be a safety net to pull you back out. I'm your last chance. Tell me I'm wrong and I'll leave, right now. I'll walk out the door and you'll never see me again. But I guarantee I'll see you again though - either behind bars, or in the ground." He looks at me carefully. I think he's scrutinising whether this is a last ditch effort to save myself or genuine belief. I really hope he's as good as I think he is to see that I believe every word I'm saying is the absolute truth. After a minute of suffocating quiet, he speaks.

"I will amend the scorecard. To pass you now only need to have scored five hits. You have done that successfully. Congratulations." He says before turning and walking towards the stairs without another word. For a moment I think that's the end of it. Then he pauses just before the ascent. "Remember this moment, Tim. I do not want you to stay. But you are staying. It is…a first." He leaves and I nod.

"It won't be the last either."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Tim's POV for the second consecutive chapter. This chapter deals with the fallout of his father's death in Identity Crisis after he goes to live with Bruce. Just when it seems the boy's ready to be swallowed by his grief, Bruce pulls him back with an explanation of how things are and why. Read and Review.**

**Enjoy.**

**Hell 2**

The pencil snaps again. That's number three this evening alone. The music in my ears is not helping me concentrate. The total lack of distractions is not helping me focus on my homework either. Every time I start to roll, start to get a feel for what's expected of me, I see his face. My dad's face. It doesn't always have to be the last time I saw it. It doesn't have to be his death mask to set me off. A lot of the time, I don't even see the boomerang in his chest. I just see him. I see him smiling or laughing. I see him with pride in his eyes, love, and know it's meant for me. Knowing I'll never witness these sights again makes my hand clench too hard. Knowing he's six feet under with my mom and it's my fault snaps the damn pencil.

I'm just glad no-one can see me out here in the stables. I get to vent on my own without hearing any meaningless reassurances or well-intentioned words of advice. I'm just allowed to carry on with things. I put the broken pencil in the desk drawer, get a fresh one from the pot and carry on with the work. Next problem…

I think an hour passes before I claim another victim for my pencil graveyard. Luckily by the time I flare up again, all my homework is pretty much done. There's only an English assignment left, but it can wait. After three hours, I've earned my break. I put my work to one side, put the broken pencil in the drawer and then slouch back in my chair. I take the earbuds out and turn it off. Deathly silence rushes back into the room. I take a deep breath before casting a long sideways look at the photograph on my windowsill. Dad and I look so happy. Everything used to be so perfect…before all the craziness. It's all my fault. I wanted to involve myself in _his_ world. I wanted the job he wanted no-one to ever take again. I strong-armed him into giving me it. Before getting involved, both my parents were alive. I look away from the photograph.

"Robin?"

I turn back to Bruce. The cowl makes it hard to tell, but I'm almost certain something about me doesn't agree with him. His jaw is a little too taut for the situation.

"Yes, Batman?"

He crosses the wasteland of scum at our feet and puts a hand on the back of my neck. He squeezes the flesh once and I instinctively close my eyes to enjoy the comfort it gives me. "You seem listless. Would you like to return to the cave?" He knows I don't want to be out here now. But I know I don't want to go back to my room and sit there either. I open my eyes and shake my head.

"No, I'm fine. Let's push on."

It's close to three when he officially calls it a night. I'm glad: it gives me an excuse to sleep away most of tomorrow. We get in the car and drive back to the cave. Alfred meets us in the cave. The old guy pats my shoulder in the warmest way possible. I give him a half-hearted smile.

"How are you feeling, young man?"

"I'm fine. Thank you."

He opens his mouth to say more, but stops and nods instead. He knows I'm hurting inside, that I'm not too far from the mess I was just after the funeral. He doesn't want to push me back towards that. Neither of them want to hurt me. The medical exams are short and sweet. The turnaround is just as brief. I'm showered and back in civilian clothes inside of a half-hour. As I walk through the library towards the staircase, I am the closest I can be to a living hell. Before I can get through the doorway and out into the parlour, a big hand clamps down on my shoulder from behind. It's my shadow. Bruce has always been my shadow. I don't turn to face him. I just listen.

"This cannot continue." He tells me frankly. I offer him a tired sigh.

"I know."

"Your current actions will only lead to ruination."

"I don't think it matters anymore: any actions I do tend to lead me to ruination."

"Thinking that way will only lock you into a cycle that eschews healing in favour of deepening already open wounds. Trust me, I know." He didn't need to tell me he knows all about pain and grief from experience. I know he's an expert on emotional stunting and festering anger. With the way I'm going I'll be joining him soon enough.

"I just want to go to bed. I'm tired." I say. His hand doesn't leave my shoulder. A moment later its twin settles on my other shoulder. Before I can guess what's coming next, I'm gently pulled back against his body. As hands leave my shoulders, arms snake over my chest. He squeezes me in his arms.

"I told your father that I would take care of you. He made me promise to look after you as best I could. I will not let you destroy yourself. He would never forgive me for breaking my promise, but he would also never forgive you for submitting to grief so tamely." The big man tells me whilst keeping a firm hold on my body. "He raised you to be stronger than this. You should be proud to be Jack Drake's son. Why are you so afraid of living?"

"I'm not afraid. I'm just…tired of hurting everybody around me. I'm starting to think I should've never bothered you in the first place. Maybe if I had…"

"Hindsight is always cruel to people like us. Always. The danger we face is always so high that the odds are stacked against us ever having happy lives. Our lives and the way we choose to live them are never without casualties. Somebody always pays the price for our mistakes and our choices. But that is weighed against the lives we save. You alone have saved hundreds of people from death. You have kept wives from losing their children, husbands from losing their wives and children from losing their parents. And you have saved me, Tim. Jason's death set me on the same path you are walking now. If I had continued down it, I would not be here now. You rescued me from the dark, like Dick did before you. Except you owed me nothing. I had never saved you or your family prior to our first meeting, never taken you into my home and yet you were willing to help me. Such selfishness is rare, even amongst the most pious of individuals." He pauses to slightly adjust his hold on me. I can feel the moral of this fable only moments away.

"The more you give away, Tim, the more is taken from you. It is an inevitable part of what we do. What is important is not how much you lose, but how you take stock of what you have left. If your reaction to losing your father is to simply journey through your remaining years on autopilot, time will go very slowly and very painfully for you. If however you realise what you have left is still greater than what most people have in their lives, you will find a way through this. Hell is not a place, Tim, it is merely a state of mind. Please do not make it yours." The arms release me without resistance and I am left with the choice of continuing on to bed or turning to face the man trying to return a favour I once granted him. I turn around.

Bruce is just standing there, like he always is when I'm looking for him. His eyes stare into mine and I see what he means. Hell is a state of mind. Bruce has been there more times than anyone else. He's watched his actions devastate those around him, kill those he loves too many times before. He's watched me lose my parents, my friends and my loved ones. He's watched Dick go through the same awful things. He's watched Jason die. The city has burned before his eyes a million times before and he has watched the darkness consume it whole a million times more. And still, here and now, he is trying to pull me out of the abyss I'm trying to fall down, the same one he has escaped every time it seemed impossible to do anything but fall deeper. If a man with as much pain as he has endured still doesn't want company in the depths of despair, I suppose I shouldn't argue with him. I nod my head in understanding.

"You've got me, right?"

"Always."

"Who's got you?"

"Until recently, it was you. I am hoping it is only an aberration and that you will have my back again. I need _you_, Tim, not a copy of me. Do you understand?" He's trying to help. I know he wants me to be myself again. But that kid I was before all this feels like a lifetime ago. It's hard to remember being happy. It feels like I've always been sad. I sigh and hug him around the waist, closing my eyes and welcoming the dark.

"It just hurts so much, Bruce. It just…really cuts deep." He closes his arms around me and emits a sigh of his own.

"I know. Grief is normal, Tim. It is even healthy. However blaming yourself for its source, forcing the weight of responsibility upon your shoulders, twists it into something that is nothing but poisonous. What happened to your father is not your fault. No tragedy that has befallen you is your fault. You must accept that you are not to blame. If you are ever to recover fully, you must let go of that responsibility."

"Why? You haven't."

"And look what that has done to me. I will never truly be happy, Tim. I will never truly be able to heal. I will always be broken inside. I will always be apart from the rest of humanity and their contentment in simplicity. You can still be a part of the human race. You can still be happy. All you have to do is let go." He loves me, I know. Maybe in the beginning of our relationship it was the last thing he ever wanted, after Jason. But he loves me now. And him not giving up on me, not letting me stay in the dark too long, means something. Coming from him, a man who lives his whole life in the blackness of human gloom, it's a hell of a compliment too. I squeeze him tight to show my appreciation.

"Darkest before the dawn, right?" I say looking up at him. He nods.

"Very much so."

"You promise to keep giving me warnings when I wander too close to the edge and I promise I'll keep trying to find my way back to the light. Deal?" I say offering up a smile from somewhere deep inside the pit. He smiles back and claps my back with a massive hand.

"Deal."

I decide to sleep in the house instead of the stables tonight. We walk up the staircase together and stop outside my old room. I'm not fixed just like that. The pain and the grief and the hellish state of mind are all still there. They just seem less noticeable now, less overwhelming. Eventually, with time, I think I'll barely notice them at all. All thanks to my shadow. I turn to Bruce.

"Thanks for not giving up on me, Bruce." He nods and pats my shoulder amicably, like Alfred.

"I will always be here for you." He tells me without it sounding anything but sincere. Then, without wanting or expecting a reply, he turns away and begins to walk back into the darkness, "Good night, Tim." I watch him get swallowed whole by the black corridor, but still hear his footsteps pressing onwards. I nod.

"Night, big guy."


End file.
